Underperforming Since 1985

The insomnia comes in waves.  Sometimes you can predict it, and can feel it coming on before it hits you, breaking over your head like foamy surf.  Other times it sneaks up on you, catching you off-guard, surprising you in a most unpleasant manner.

There are times when you go for weeks or even months without suffering.  Those times are wonderful, allowing you to sleep with ease, dream somewhat peacefully, luxuriate in the comfort that you won’t spend hours staring up at a blank ceiling, trying to relax every part of your body, trying to replay favorite movie scenes verbatim in your head, trying to read until the point of exhaustion so that you can just finally doze off.

The causes of it vary.  Sometimes it’s about money, or the terror of becoming an adult, or residual fright from whatever latest horror movie you made yourself watch, but usually it’s about some boy.  Whichever boy is occupying your thoughts that day, week, month, year.  Maybe you fought, maybe you’re lonely, or maybe you’re awake with worry about why he didn’t phone, why he didn’t show up, why he’s disappointed you yet again.

Because you admit to yourself that any boy is not worth losing sleep over, the fact that you are losing sleep angers you.  Maybe you cry a little bit, curled up in your comforter in the dark, or maybe you curse this boy’s name tearfully and then try to call him again.  When do you throw in the towel for the night?  11:30?  Just 15 more minutes.  12:00?  The night is already wasted, and it’s not like you’re going to fall asleep when the clock reaches whatever arbitrary number you’ve decided on.

Turn your phone to silent, turn it off, throw it across the room.  Strain your ears for the sounds of cars driving by outside, knowing that there’s no way this boy will just show up and make things right.  You listen anyway.

12:04 am.  The night is wasted.  You alternate between anger, worry, and sadness.  You’ll lie awake for another few hours and then fall into a fitful sleep, waking every so often, fingers itching to check the screen of a cell phone that will only disappoint.

The night is wasted.